


'til my heart starts

by queerly_it_is



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hit the bed laughing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'til my heart starts

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting this one from tumblr. Title from Matt Nathanson's 'Heart Starts'

They hit the bed laughing.

All Scott’s momentum when he bounces against the mattress goes into Stiles where he’s braced above him, both of them scrambling up towards the headboard.

“Hi,” Scott says, still smiling as he strokes a hand over Stiles’ face, to the corner of his mouth and across his bottom lip.

Stiles nips at the pad of his thumb, flicks his tongue over it. He rolls his hips down, dick pressing to the jut of Scott’s hip while Scott’s rubs against his bare stomach. They both make low, breathy noises, sliding together while Scott cups Stiles’ jaw, keeps him close.

He arches up under Stiles’ weight, rocks into him with his chest shuddering. Stiles ducks down to mouth at his throat, lips burning and wet, teeth scraping while he rolls down, chest-to-chest, his legs between the spread of Scott’s, back flexing under Scott’s hands.

Even if he burns hotter than Stiles – always did, even before the werewolf thing – he still feels the flush on Stiles’ skin like hot coals, the blotchy flush that starts on his face and goes down his neck, spills across his shoulders and halfway down his neck. He grinds their hips across each other, widens his legs to bracket Stiles’, calves over Stiles’ thighs, excitement winding around his spine when he thinks about how bare he is for Stiles to look down at, sweat sticking the sheets to his back.

Stiles swears, muffled into the curve of Scott’s neck, mouth pulling and teeth scraping at his skin. He leans up onto his knees and puts his hands on Scott’s hips, body pushing Scott’s thighs apart a little further. His cock’s hard and blood-dark, curved tight to his belly, and his eyes are so dark when they lock onto Scott’s, tongue flashing over his mouth.

“What…” he starts, swallows with a click. “What d’you want?”

Scott puts his hand over Stiles’ on his hip, squeezes. “Like this,” he says, wriggling deeper into the bed under him. “Want you to fuck me like this.”

A low groan cracks in Stiles’ chest, and he turns his hand to close it around Scott’s. The fingers of his other hand wrap around Scott’s cock, jack him slowly until his head falls back, mouth open.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, thumbing at the head of Scott’s dick. “God, yeah, I’ll fuck you, make you feel so good.”

Scott moans at the pressure of Stiles’ thumb against his slit, blurting precome around it that gets smeared around, strings to Stiles’ fingers. “Do it,” he says, fighting to keep his eyes from closing, trying not to drown in every touch Stiles leaves on him, faint shaking running all though him as he tries not to just beg even if he’d never need to. He pulls at the backs of Stiles’ thighs with his heels. “C’mon.” Another moan. “ _Fuck_ , c’mon. I want it.”

His dick slaps to his stomach when Stiles lets him go and leans across the bed, arm stretching to pull lube out of a drawer. Scott shivers, either the brush of hair on Stiles’ legs against the insides of his thighs or just the want in his gut to get Stiles inside him, his fingers and his cock, the bulk of him pinning Scott into the mattress, filling him until his hips are aching.

Stiles pulls one of Scott’s legs over his shoulder, plants a kiss on his calf muscle before he flips the bottle open. He slicks his fingers, free hand stroking up and down his leg, ankle to knee and back, fingers in the spaces between the small, fragile bones.

Scott swallows almost painfully when Stiles slides a finger around his hole, taking shaky breaths and watching Stiles’ face, the way his eyes are locked to his own hand working between Scott’s legs, all open-needy expression and bitten-red mouth. He sighs, soundless and splintering as Stiles’ finger pushes into him to the second knuckle, crooking and twisting.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” Stiles says on a breath, second finger tracing around Scott’s ass, other hand on his thigh keeping him open.

The stretch fades around the two fingers Stiles works inside him, heat spreading up his body and out through his hips when Stiles spreads them out, stretches him. He’s spilling precome into his navel, dick twitching and rubbing across his stomach, skin flushed like a fever and sweat running from his temples, itching at his skin. His hands fist in the sheets over and over and his heart’s throbbing in his neck.

Stiles pushes one more finger past the clench of his hole, all three turning wide and long until he finds Scott’s prostate and rubs over it, rolls of pressure that unstick a whine from his throat.

He loves this; the way Stiles preps him, slicks him and eases him open, takes him apart before he even starts fucking him. The way Stiles watches him for every reaction, the whimpers when he digs at Scott’s prostate with his fingers, grips his skin so tight Scott can pretend the bruises will last a while. He feels something close to delicate like this, like he’s still as young as he’s supposed to be – just as _human_ as he isn’t anymore.

“M’ready,” he says, slurring with his head tossed to the side, coaxing and grabbing at Stiles’ hip with a hand that shakes when Stiles pushes his fingers deep as he can, the ache turning to pressure in his cock while he leaks all over himself. “ _Stiles_ , please.”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs, shushing him, hand leaving Scott’s thigh to span out on his stomach, anchoring him while he eases his fingers out. “I got you,” he says, thumb tugging once at the looser muscle of his hole, pressing on the tight skin behind his balls. “I got you.”

Scott swallows, nods rough against the sheets. “I know,” he says, words feeling huge inside his mouth, slipping off his tongue. “I know you do.”

He watches Stiles slick himself up, shiny-wet fingers curling around pink-red skin, over veins and the flush of the head, the way his stomach clenches and his throat works as he touches himself. Scott can _smell_ him, sharp and thick like earth and lightning, sweat underneath it all.

He urges Stiles over him again just as he’s lining himself up, heat of his dick slipping between Scott’s cheeks, catching on his rim. They kiss sloppy and off-angle, Scott gasping around Stiles’ tongue when Stiles’ cock pushes in, in until there’s no room for air in his body or anything but his pulse roaring in his ears. The burn makes him groan, stretching wider and deeper than Stiles’ fingers, heavy weight that’s all he focus on as Stiles goes deeper, hot enough he can feel it behind his ribs.

“Move,” he rasps against Stiles’ mouth, hips twitching against the flat of Stiles’ belly, trying to get even closer while he grips down just to feel the way he’s fucked open, the way Stiles shudders and leans more weight on him, breath huffing across Stiles’ face. “Stiles, you can… you can move.”

It’s a slow pull when Stiles drags his hips back, chest rubbing over Scott’s and trapping his dick between them. The ridge before the head of his cock pulls at Scott’s hole, another broken-up breath he loses in Stiles’ mouth at the stretch, the shot of heat into his hips. Stiles slides back in, wet and bare, until they’re flush together.

“Yeah,” he says, his own air coming back at him where he’s mouthing at Stiles’ jaw. “Yeah like that.” He tries to arch into it, tries to match the way Stiles moves, but he’s too shaky, muscles liquid and bones shuddering when the hair on Stiles’ belly scratches across his cock. He’s got nothing to do but take it, let Stiles fuck him, grind against him and pull back over and over, never getting faster, just driving him up and up until he’s not even sure he’s on the bed anymore.

Stiles licks the sweat from the strained lines of his neck, sucks marks that fade too fast into the soft skin under his jaw. He rubs his hands down Scott’s forearms, raising goosebumps and lacing their fingers together, pulls his hands above his head and presses them down while his cock grazes Scott’s prostate, more precome stringing his own dick to his stomach when the movement of Stiles’ body rubs it between them.

“Scott,” Stiles says, sharp and gasping like it was kicked out of him. He keeps whispering it, mouth moving against Scott’s cheek or his neck, the curve of his shoulder. It gets punctuated by random slaps of skin when he slides in a little faster, changes the angle so Scott’s whimpering with every deep-hard push. He says it like a secret, or a prayer, like the only word he knows, and Scott can’t force his eyes open with all the feeling building under his skin, the heat and static buzz.

He clenches his fingers when Stiles goes to let go of one of his hands, to move it down between them to jerk Scott off.

“No,” he says, nosing along Stiles’ cheek. “I want—Just this. Just keep fucking me.”

The sound Stiles makes is pained, high and cracked clean down the middle, all of his weight pushing him into Scott, hips trembling when they meet Scott’s ass, sweat dripping off him onto the bed and Scott’s skin.

Scott twitches up as much as he can, ruts his dick against Stiles’ belly, muscle and skin and wiry hair, and all the air he can find smells like them – smells like sex and sweat and the blood pumping through Stiles’ body.

His orgasm takes forever, a slow climb up a mountain until his thighs are shaking and he’s squeezing Stiles’ hands hard enough that it has to hurt, belly tight and every breath a ragged, exhausting effort. But he gets there, tucks his face into Stiles’ neck and groans like he’s dying, thinks his eyes are red and can feel his tongue against the razor points of his teeth. Come slicks and spreads between them, hot and filthy, the mess running off his sides to the sheets, and Stiles feels bigger inside him like this, when he’s all fluttering muscle and helpless aftershocks that make him clench around Stiles’ cock.

Stiles’ last few thrusts are barely movements at all, snapping his hips into Scott and breathing hard against Scott’s temple, faint brush of his lashes on Scott’s burning forehead when he grunts choked and almost silent, stills as he swells and empties in pulses that leak out around the shape of him, drip down the insides of Scott’s thighs.

He mouths down Scott’s cheek to his lips, swapping air and both of them with their eyes open even though it’s all a blur of skin and the sting of sweat in Scott’s eyes. He doesn’t know if they’re brown or red, can’t feel if he’s cutting at Stiles’ mouth with fangs, and there’s a flip in his belly when he makes himself remember that Stiles wouldn’t care, that he’d let Scott do anything, put his lips to all the lethal, inhuman parts of him. That there’s nothing he could do that would make Stiles think he was a monster.

So he kisses Stiles because the words won’t fit, the lines and edges of them too small to contain everything, and when Stiles doesn’t try to move away, stays inside him even while he’s going soft and Scott’s come clings between them, he doesn’t have to wonder if the meaning’s gotten lost.

They’ve never needed words anyway. Not really.

 


End file.
